Immortals
by OmgMangos
Summary: The only rule in Dean Winchester's life, the only one he's ever followed, is to always look out for his brother Sam. And when Sammy joins the army to fight in the war in Afghanistan, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow and protect him. What Dean doesn't know is that one of his fellow comrades, Castiel Novak, will be more to him than he ever expected a person to be.
1. 1

**February 2002  
Somewhere above the North Atlantic Ocean**  
 **Dean Winchester**

"Dude, you are not _seriously_ reading this old thing again?" Sam asked, examining the crumpled- up newspaper cutting in Dean's hand in disbelief.

"How about you mind your own business, Sammy?" his brother gave back, slightly irritated. Which was not only Sam's fault – the brothers had been on this damned plane for over an hour now and there was much more to come. Dean didn't like planes and still less did he like flying in them. His back hurt from sitting all the time on the uncomfortable grey seats of the airline's economy class and every time there was a clear-air turbulence he almost jumped out of his skin.

"You're humming _Metallica?"_ his brother asked confusedly.

"Calms me down."

Sam laughed. "Dean, relax!"

"Said the boy that's afraid of clowns!" his brother hissed at him, "Planes crash! What do clowns do? They make children laugh! What's so frightening about that?!"

"But our plane won't crash," Sam responded more softly, "I promise."

Dean was not convinced, but he left it at that and looked out of the small window at the white sea of clouds beneath him instead. His thoughts drifted off to the moment he took farewell of his mother. It had been a quick and tearless goodbye, in the middle of an airport, among a crowd of stressed, sweating people and crying children. Now he wished he had done it more properly.

Because he and Sammy were going to war and hell, maybe neither of them would come back. Dean closed his eyes and thought of Bobby Singer and Jessica Moore, the only two other people he cared about and hadn't really taken farewell of, either. While they still were at home and had returned to their daily duties by now, he sat here in this fatal plane on his way to Afghanistan to be a soldier.

He remembered how he had signed up to become a soldier in the army of volunteers of the US Army to fight in the battles in Afghanistan. He hadn't even hesitated to affix his signature and now, 45.000 feet above ground level, it dawned on him what he maybe had lost forever. Most likely had lost forever.

Dean was not a soldier; he was a pathetic car mechanic at Bobby Singer's garage and a pathetic male prostitute besides in a pathetic try to finance his brother's law studies. Dean clenched his hands and looked over to his brother, Sam, who was sunk in one of his books. Sammy was even less of a soldier than he was. Sure, with his 6'4'' body height and his strong muscles he looked impressive, if not intimidating, but he was the most gentle and considerate person Dean had ever met. Sam wouldn't harm a fly and now he was on the best way to kill people.

Dean sighed and yet again read the poem he had cut out of a newspaper a few years ago and always been carrying around since.

 _Awake_

 _I was asleep_  
 _When you found me; living and dying,_  
 _Drowning and breathing in a sea so deep_  
 _Loud and silent, where the skies were crying._

 _The waves were crashing_  
 _And above I saw the sun's reflection_  
 _Seeming to be the lights of freedom flashing_  
 _Yet, I was going into the wrong direction._

 _And I was asleep_  
 _Until you came and woke me_  
 _But now that I'm awake I weep_  
 _Because I finally see._

 _I see that faith is a dangerous slope_  
 _And just one careless step might cause your obit._  
 _I see that freedom is a length of rope_  
 _And God wants you to hang yourself with it._

"What does this even mean?" Sam, who had, unnoticed by his brother, been looking over Dean's shoulder, asked. Dean shoved him aside with his elbow. "Go and find your own cheesy poem, Sammy."

"You've read it so many times you must know it by heart by now! And stop calling me 'Sammy'. My name is Sam, how many times do I have to tell you? Maybe I should also write a poem about it."

His brother stuffed the poem back into the pocket of his leather jacket and closed his eyes. "Good luck with that, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean drifted off to sleep and had some weird dreams about crashing planes crowded with clowns until the next turbulence jerked him awake. He stared out of the window again when suddenly he could hear his little brother say quietly: "I already miss them, Dean. Mom, Bobby… Jessica." Jessica Moore was Sam's girlfriend and one could tell by the pain that entered his eyes when he now spoke about her that he really did love her more than anything.

Dean sighed. "I told you this was a stupid idea."

Sam looked up and furrowed his brows. "Don't you understand? I _had_ to do something. Adam… would want me to do something."

Adam Milligan. Sam's best friend.

"Sammy, I'm sure Adam wouldn't want you to do this. You two were almost like brothers. And I as your actual brother can tell you that this is certainly not what I want for you. And you can't bring him back this way, either."

"Don't say that to me, I already know!" Sam shot back, suddenly angry.

As Dean just looked at him sympathetically, Sam took a deep, shaky breath and covered his face with his hands. His brother gently touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean to – "

"No, you're right," Sam interrupted him, "It won't bring him back. And maybe I will get myself killed and leave Mom and Jess with even more pain to deal with. Maybe I will get _you_ killed, Dean. Just because I couldn't save Adam."

"You can't save everyone."

There was a moment of silence, then Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands and maybe by back held tears: "Can you imagine them if we don't come back? All of them?"

Yes, Dean could. Dean could see his mother doing nothing but sitting on her bed and staring at the opposite wall all day, just as she always did on the anniversary of her husband's death day. He could see Jessica, cowering on the kitchen floor of her and Sam's apartment, shaken by those sobs that don't let you breathe and make your lungs ache. He could see Bobby, pottering around on one of his cars; jar tightly clenched together, a single tear escaping his eye.

Yes, Dean could imagine all of them. And it hurt so badly.

He forced a smile on his face. "It's going to be okay, Sammy. I'm here to watch out for my little brother, so no worries. We're going to be okay. I promise."


	2. 2

**February 2002**

 **Illinois**

 **Castiel Novak**

Castiel sighed and heaved his backpack onto the moving walkway of the luggage inspection, almost stumbling over his own feet and knocking painfully against that very same moving walkway with his shin in the attempt to not drop his backpack. Not that his backpack would have been especially heavy or to be treated with care – Castiel just had the tendency to generally make everything ten times worse than it already was.

He almost laughed out loud – out of all people, _he_ wanted to become a soldier. He would probably be dead before he even arrived in Afghanistan.

When the lady at the luggage inspection scanned his luggage and detected nothing but a notebook and a pencil in it, she smiled a charming smile at Castiel. "You need a rucksack for _this?_ "

He shyly smiled back. "No, I need a backpack to look like I'm actually making a journey. And to make myself believe I'm not leaving here with nothing but a pencil and a notebook."

"Where are you going, then?" She took unusual much time for him and the people in the queue behind Castiel started murmuring in irritation.

He took a deep breath before he answered. "I'm going to war."

"Oh." Her voice was about 10 degrees cooler as she handed over Castiel's backpack. "Have a save flight, Mister."

He nodded one last time and set off for the waiting hall. The by the military situated airplane would leave the airport in exactly two hours and Castiel would sit in that plane. He still didn't know what had gotten into him when he signed up to become a soldier.

Maybe it was because he wanted his life to finally mean something. Maybe because nobody would miss him, anyway. Or maybe because, deep inside, he didn't even want to return from war. Sitting on the plastic seats in the waiting hall, he replayed the events of September the eleventh, 2001 in his mind.

He had been in Brazil at the time it happened. Everybody was so flustered and sad, even there. The newsreader had had tears in her eyes when she was reporting on how the terrorists' planes had crashed into the World Trade Center and claimed the lives of almost three thousand people. Back then, Castiel had thought that maybe she had lost a loved person during the attacks. Now he wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe she had just felt with those who had.

Either way, Castiel had felt incredibly sorry for her. And now he was going to war to perhaps fight for justice and revenge.

He doffed the thought again.

Castiel viewed the other people that hasted by or took a seat as well and wondered how many of them would go aboard the same plane as him. Most of them were probably on their way to Easter vacation or business trips.

His thoughts were interrupted by a toddler that crawled towards him and pulled at his shoelaces with his tiny, plump hands. Castiel smiled. "Hey, little man. Where're your parents?"

At this moment, a corpulent woman with a gigantic purple hat and a strong Russian accent screamed on top of her lungs: "Dimitri Tippens Krushnic! You come back here _right now_!" She was struggling with an enormous baggage cart and the three infants clinging to her coat-tails weren't really helpful, either.

He got up and gently lifted up the boy to his feet. He struggled a little at first but then flung his little arms around Castiel's neck and let himself be carried. "You're a real angel, aren't you?" Castiel said more to himself than to the child. When he reached the stressed out mother, she couldn't even thank him enough. "It's not easy with four children alone at an airport," she said and tried to prohibit her youngest from escaping once again. Castiel had enough decency not to ask where the father of the children was. What he asked instead was: "May I help you with this?" He pointed at the baggage cart and got a grateful look from the woman.

When he returned to the waiting hall, it was almost time for him to board the plane that would take him far, far away from everything he was used to. He thought about that little child and hoped he would know better things to do with his life than Castiel. And out of nowhere it hit him – he would kill people. Real people that were babies once and that could have children on their own – given that they lived this war. What they would probably not.

Castiel sighed deeply. He wasn't a soldier and he wasn't going to war to fight for justice and retribution. Who was he trying to fool? He was a pathetic little author that hadn't published anything but some poems and short stories and could only stay afloat because he had inherited a fortune of his adoptive parents, which he spent on traveling around the world, hoping to find some inspiration. Yes, pathetic was the right word.

It was almost time for him to board the plane. He closed his eyes for a moment, crossed himself and muttered: "Forgive me, father, for I am about to sin."

He was religious, although he knew exactly that he didn't make the perfect Christian, for various reasons.

But faith was the only thing he had left to hold onto, and so he did.

At the check-in of the plane there was a man in a military uniform that looked suspiciously through all the passengers' hand luggage and inspected every single identity card at least three times, which was why Castiel had to wait for over half an hour until he finally was allowed to go aboard the plane.

This waiting time was pure horror for him.

His heart was galloping like a horse, his breath was fast and short and his hands were dripping with sweat.

He did not want to go. Not at all. He did not want to fight and he did not want to kill people. He did not want to become friends with his comrades to later see them die. He did not want to leave here.

And then, it was too late. He sat in his seat on the plane, cramped by his seatbelt and the muscle-bound man next to him. He had never felt this out of place in his life.

The engine started and the plane lifted off with a jolt and Castiel watched the world beneath him slowly getting smaller, like he had hundreds of times before. This time was different, though – this time, there was no going back and no coming home, Castiel was sure of that.


End file.
